


And the time stops, and my heart starts

by nataliaa



Category: God's Own Country (2017)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:20:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29473869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nataliaa/pseuds/nataliaa
Summary: He’s not sure when he finally drifts off, only that it’s far too close to the time when Johnny’s horrible old alarm clock begins blaring. Gheorghe wakes abruptly, disoriented, heart racing, wishing desperately that he hadn’t agreed to harvest fucking potatoes in fucking Scotland. Then Johnny groans and mumbles and slowly disentangles himself to sit up, and Gheorghe thinks,oh, right, and pushes himself up after Johnny.
Relationships: Gheorghe Ionescu/Johnny Saxby
Comments: 18
Kudos: 80





	And the time stops, and my heart starts

**Author's Note:**

> I am years late to the game, but I've only just watched God's Own Country, spent the entire first viewing bracing myself for it to end in tragedy, was _thrilled_ when in fact it did not, and had to immediately watch again to enjoy it properly.
> 
> Anyway, I cannot get over these soft boys, so please enjoy this little snippet of Gheorghe POV post-canon fluff.
> 
> Title from Patrick Wolf's "The Days", because of course it is.

Gheorghe sleeps terribly, his first night back at the farm. Johnny is wrapped around him like a baby opossum, the hard edges of his body digging into the soft parts of Gheorghe’s. The bed is ridiculously two small for two adult men, and the room is freezing despite the heat of Johnny.

He should be exhausted, really. The coach trip back to the farm had been long, even though they’d both dozed, and after arriving they’d barely taken time to drop their bags before heading out to see to the animals. Deirdre had cooked a dinner that Gheorghe could tell was a special effort, and it had been touching, despite the fact that they’d eaten together in the usual tense silence. Johnny had been practically vibrating in his eagerness to get Gheorghe upstairs, and Deirdre and Martin were clearly trying to pretend they neither knew nor cared why Gheorghe was back and why Johnny was so twitchy. Truly, the English were an incomprehensible people.

In spite of Johnny’s impatience—and, to be honest, Gheorghe’s—it had been late when they’d finally gotten to bed. Deirdre had washed up while Johnny helped Martin in the bath and Gheorghe checked on the sheep. And then finally, _finally_ , he slipped into Johnny’s bedroom and barely got the door closed before Johnny was on him, hands everywhere, lips everywhere.

It was nearly impossible to reconcile this eager, affectionate Johnny with the sullen boy Gheorghe had first met. Johnny’s grip now was firm and his mouth gentle, and Gheorghe had pushed him back onto the bed and given him the blowjob he’d dreamt of every single night on that Scottish potato farm. It was even better in real life.

And yet instead of nodding off into post-orgasmic bliss, as Johnny did nearly instantaneously, Gheorghe is squinting through the darkness at the ceiling, imagining that he can see the spot where the paint is brown and curling from a leak that had been repaired long before he ever came to Saxby Farm.

He had reconciled himself to it, really: another disappointment, another broken heart. Another time when he had foolishly believed that he might have found a life that fit him, as unexpected as this one had been. The worst part about finding Johnny in that pub toilet had been that, deep down, it hadn’t been all that surprising. In the end, Gheorghe had mostly been angry at himself.

He’s not sure when he finally drifts off, only that it’s far too close to the time when Johnny’s horrible old alarm clock begins blaring. Gheorghe wakes abruptly, disoriented, heart racing, wishing desperately that he hadn’t agreed to harvest fucking potatoes in fucking Scotland. Then Johnny groans and mumbles and slowly disentangles himself to sit up, and Gheorghe thinks, _oh, right_.

Johnny leans back down to drop a quick kiss on his lips, and Gheorghe remembers that the cows need feeding, and there’s a stretch of fence that Johnny probably hasn’t gotten around to fixing, and the lambs will be waiting for him with their soft noses and silly little bleats, and thank fucking God there is not a potato field in sight. He grabs Johnny’s hand where it’s braced on the bed, keeps him close for a moment longer, then pushes himself up after Johnny.

—

Gheorghe had left for nearly as long as he’d spent at the farm to begin with, and being back is surreal. It’s exactly the same, but everything has changed.

The departure of the caravan is the least of the differences. They watch it roll away together, not quite touching, Johnny keeping himself rigid and tense. Gheorghe wants to hold him, wants to kiss him, wants to tease that reluctant and beautiful smile onto his face, but they’re both aware of Martin and Deirdre looking on from inside the house, and them knowing is a completely different thing to them _seeing._ Gheorghe thinks he can understand Johnny’s seriousness: bringing Gheorghe back was the first step, but this—this is Johnny’s first real decision about the farm. No more seasonal help. Johnny and Gheorghe are a team now.

Johnny might hold himself back when he’s uncertain, but Gheorghe needs the reassurance of touch; and sure enough, his arm thrown tight across Johnny’s shoulders wipes the lines from Johnny’s forehead, and sends warmth through Gheorghe. Gheorghe gives him a squeeze, then pushes him ahead into the house. Their house. Martin looks disinterested and Deirdre bustles about matter-of-factly, but she’s made tea and she puts out the fancy biscuits. Gheorghe catches Martin in a rare, crooked smile.

Yes, they’ve made the right decision.

—

The days grow shorter and colder, and nothing makes Gheorghe homesick quite like wet English winter. He’s congested and he feels damp all the time, even when he’s sat in front of the fireplace with Johnny pressed up against him. He can tell Johnny is taken aback by his moodiness, is trying extra hard to be attentive, and—it’s sweet. It matters. Gheorghe notices it.

One night, squeezed in bed together, Johnny pulls back abruptly mid-kiss.

“I—I still want you here, you know,” he says, gaze fixed somewhere above Gheorghe’s left shoulder. “I want you to stay. But. I also want you to be happy. You know?”

Gheorghe freezes. “What?”

Johnny swallows visibly. “It just seems—recently—like—”

Gheorghe shifts his weight a bit to bring one hand to Johnny’s cheek, gently turning his face so he’ll look at Gheorghe. Johnny complies, hesitantly, and his eyes look a bit wet. He looks at Gheorghe, but doesn’t go on.  
  
“I am happy here,” Gheorghe tells him, soft and steady. “I did not mean to make you think otherwise.”

Johnny huffs a little and tries to duck his head, but Gheorghe catches him and kisses him slowly. He keeps his grip on Johnny’s cheek when they pull apart.

“I am happy being with you,” Gheorghe says, hoping that Johnny will hear how earnestly he means it. “But the fucking winter? Fine, yes, I hate this wet, cold shit. Eight hours of cloudy daylight is _not enough_.”

Johnny rolls his eyes. “Right, you delicate southern flower.” He draws his finger across Gheorghe’s chest in a way that he thinks is meant to be somehow mocking his fragility, but all it does is send an electric shiver through Gheorghe.

Gheorghe grumbles, flips them over and nearly throws them off the bed in the process, but manages to end up on top of Johnny, whose mouth falls open as Gheorghe lines up their hips and bears down a little. Johnny squirms.

“Delicate?” Gheorghe asks.

“Fuck off,” Johnny pants, and leans up to kiss Gheorghe.

—

Winter, inevitably, ends, and Gheorghe’s temper improves just as predictably as the days slowly warm and lengthen.

They go up to the moors with the ewes again, and it feels like coming home. For Johnny, too, Gheorghe thinks.

“Wouldn’t it have been easier to bring them down to the house this year?” he asks conversationally.

Johnny shrugs one shoulder and pokes at the fire. “Too much hassle,” he says, but Gheorghe sees the side of his mouth twitch upward as Johnny glances over at him. He also knows that the three nights they’ll spend up here required tense negotiation with Deirdre and prevailing upon a neighbor to stop by once a day to check on the cows.

Gheorghe pushes himself to his feet and drops to his knees in front of Johnny, bracketed between his splayed legs. Johnny cocks an eyebrow, but doesn’t move. The firelight flickers over his face, warm and golden, casting the hollows of his cheeks into darkness and drawing long shadows from his eyelashes. _He’s beautiful_ , Gheorghe thinks, not for the first time.

After a long moment, Johnny shifts, reaches out a hand and strokes it across Gheorghe’s cheek. His fingers are calloused and cold, pushing slowly back to dig into his hair and pull Gheorghe forward. Gheorghe lets himself be pulled, bracing his palms on Johnny’s thighs as Johnny kisses him. He tastes like the salty instant noodles they’d shared, taking turns fishing them out of the cup with their plastic forks and flicking each other with drops of broth, at first by accident but then entirely on purpose. They’d giggled like boys about it until Gheorghe had licked a drop straight off Johnny’s neck and then the noodles had gone cold and mushy, forgotten.

Johnny kisses him slow and hot, and whatever Gheorghe expected when he first came up here a year ago, this is so much better.

—

“Fuck fuck _fuck_ ,” Gheorghe hisses, clutching his forearm. One of the lambs has a stubborn streak worse than Johnny’s and a shockingly sharp kick to go with it, and is currently hightailing it across the meadow.

“John!” he shouts, and Johnny looks up from where he’s shutting the ewes into their enclosure just in time to see the little bastard gallop past, freedom-bound.

In the next moment, Johnny has somehow lunged sideways and thrown his arms about their rogue lamb, holding it gently but secure as a straight jacket.

Gheorghe scrambles over to where they’re sprawled in the mud, Johnny and the wriggling lamb. “ _Oh god, I love you_ ,” he breathes.

Luckily, Johnny learning Romanian hasn’t really been a pressing priority, because Johnny just squints up at him and goes, “What? You all right then?”

When Gheorghe squats down and opens his arms, Johnny passes the lamb over easily. Gheorghe shakes his head. “Fine. He just caught me by surprise.”

Johnny grins cheekily. “Lucky I was here then, eh?”

“My hero,” Gheorghe tells him seriously, kissing his dimple before taking his charge back to the pen with the other lambs. Back turned, he exhales quietly. _I love him_ , he repeats to himself.

—

The next morning, Gheorghe brings coffee over to where Johnny is perched on the wall, gazing out at the early morning mist as it begins to burn off. Everything is green and gray except for Johnny’s pink cheeks.

Gheorghe pauses for a moment, still behind Johnny, and watches as the sunlight steadily grows brighter over the hills. It feels so familiar and so comfortable; if nobody speaks, sometimes he can almost imagine he’s back on his parents’ farm. He would be lying if he said that he hadn’t been intrigued by Johnny from the start, but the truth is he fell in love with this land long before he fell for the man.

When Gheorghe holds out the mug, Johnny closes his hand around Gheorghe’s, and for a moment they both watch the steam spiral upward between them.

“Thanks,” Johny says eventually, taking the mug by the handle and letting Gheorghe pull back. “I,” he says, then stops. He goes back to looking out over the fields. Gheorghe sits beside him and waits.

“I love you.” Johnny says it quietly but clearly, eyes carefully facing ahead. He doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t look at Gheorghe as seconds pass in silence. He looks—anticipatory, but not tense, Gheorghe thinks. There’s a calm confidence to him that was nowhere to be found a year ago. Gheorghe loves it. Gheorghe loves _him_.

He reaches out, takes Johnny’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and gently tugs until Johnny turns his head and looks at Gheorghe. Gheorghe grins, and something in Johnny’s face loosens.  
  
“I love you too,”Gheorghe tells him, then says it again in Romanian.

The smile that breaks across Johnny’s face is broad and bright and rare; Gheorghe can see his crooked bottom teeth and the deep crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

“You’re still a fucking freak though,” Gheorghe adds, and Johnny pitches himself forward until he can bury his face in the crook of Gheorghe’s neck.

“Well you’re a fucking faggot,” Johnny says, voice muffled by Gheorghe’s sweater.

“Yes,” Gheorghe agrees. Johnny’s hair is blowing into his nose, his elbow is sharp against Gheorghe’s side, the clouds building on the horizon threaten rain, hungry lambs are bleating behind them, and there’s nowhere Gheorghe would rather be.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading <3


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